


The Thrushmoor Terror

by JackBivouac



Series: Strange Aeons [2]
Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Original Work, Pathfinder (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Bestiality, Bondage, Brother/Sister Incest, Choking, Double Penetration, F/M, Forced Incest, Forced Orgasm, Interspecies Sex, Monsters, Multi, Other, Rape, Ritual Sex, Tentacle Rape, Vacuum-packed, Vore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2019-12-29 20:16:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18301214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackBivouac/pseuds/JackBivouac
Summary: The adventures of the escaped Briarstone Asylum mental patients in the perpetually overcast town of Thrushmoor





	1. Pay Me What You Owe Me

The old couple who ran the ferry from Briarstone’s isle to the dreary fishing town of Thrushmoor on the mainland were too kind and doddering to question the nakedness of the six young adults who found their way to the ferry. They didn’t even make the connection between their bruised, abused bodies and the mental asylum that dominated the otherwise unpopulated isle.

Instead, Ilesi, Cane, Argade, Bates, Mura, and Dal received ill-fitting but warm, bag-like clothes as well as all the porridge they could eat and a free ride on the ferry.

Deep gray clouds loomed low on the horizon and driving rain soaked the six escaped patients through. The wind and rain turned the water choppy and starkly limited visibility despite the rise of the morning sun.

As the small boat neared Thrushmoor, Cane pointed excitedly toward the shore. “Lights! I see lights!”

Argade and Ilesi ran to his side of the boat. Indeed, lights shone in hazy nimbuses from the town’s windows. Bates and Mura sighed in relief in each other’s arms. Their ordeal was over. 

Dal, however, hugged their arms around their shivering chest. As far as they’d made it from the asylum, they couldn’t shake the dark inkling in their gut that whatever power had possessed them to torture and kill their abusers wasn’t through with any of them.

The elderly ship’s captain blathered on obliviously as she docked the ferry. “Apart from the everlasting fog and rain, Thrushmoor’s not a bad place, a little drear but not dangerous. Bad weather makes for kind souls, as they say. You won’t have any trouble finding work, dears. Head to a tavern--they’ll sort you out.”

She handed each of them a small purse of coin and sent them on their way. The six walked from the docks into a curious tangle of alley walls more brick than building. Here and there, murals of charcoal graffiti depicted three foreign cities crisscrossed in a devouring urban sprawl.

The unfamiliar alley split, curving to the left and the right. The six stopped at the crossroads. They looked at each other uncertainly and back toward the docks.

Only there were no docks. They’d been replaced by a twisting tunnel of more sagging alley. A low wave of cold, yellow fog seeped from the tunnel, tendrils reaching, grasping for the ankles of the six.

“Run!” shouted Cane. He grabbed the nearest hands, Argade and Ilesi’s, and bolted down the left curve of the alley.

Bates and Mura ran screaming down the right. Dal ran after the siblings. Despite the echoing screams and the pulse pounding in their ears, the sound of slow footfalls emanated from the wall of mist racing out behind them.

The wave of sickly fog crashed upon the two groups of prey. They stumbled blind through the yellow, palms slapping, beating the all-encasing alley walls.

The footfalls ceased. The mist parted. Ilesi, Cane, Argade, Bates, Mura, and Dal found each other once more. They were boxed in by three alley walls, sagging until their graffiti-blackened bricks touched overhead like a roof above fire. The fourth wall was nearly solid yellow fog.

A white mask, broken between its gaping eyeholes, emerged from the fourth wall. It floated forth into the entrapping alley, pulling behind it a writhing mass of yellow, fabric tentacles. 

A hollow voice rang out from the empty mask. “You have drawn upon the power of Hastur. You, in turn, must be drawn upon.”

The writhing yellow tentacles shot out past the mask. They seized and wrapped around every patient’s arms and legs, spreading them wide into a suspended eagle.

The patients struggled and shrieked against their bonds. The fabric held them as sure as steel, coiling tighter with each futile kick and flail.

A second wave of thick fabric tentacles shot out from the writhing cloud. One wriggled rough and worming down each patients’ throat, gagging their screams. One snaked down the loose waists of Cane, Argade, and Bates’ pants. Two snaked down Ilesi, Mura, and Dal’s.

The knotted, fabric heads knocked and prodded the fear-clenched mouths of their assholes and cunts. The six couldn’t scream. With their limbs stretched taut and constricted in fabric coils, they couldn’t move except for the helpless squirm of their hips.

The knotted tentacle heads ramped up their battering. They shoved through the mouths with a rough twist and wedged into tightened ass and pussy. The knot-headed tentacles ripped their soft, fleshy walls apart, their brutal fabric scraping the shafts raw.

All six trembled like leaves not in pleasure but the inferno of pain exploding up from their inner, abraded shafts. Lancing heat shot from their wracking asses and pussies through to every limb, up their clenching spines to their skull’s crown.

Their choking mouths lolled on the tentacles penetrating their throats, drool dropping from their chins to their shuddering chests. Even blacked out, they couldn’t escape the knotted tentacles’ relentless thrusts into every shaft. Unconscious, they couldn’t scream. They could only watch, helpless behind closed eyes, as the raping tentacles shoved and burned deeper into their deepest cavities.

#*#*#*#*

Patrons of the Stain, the oldest and most frequented tap house in Thrushmoor, alerted tavernkeep Eman to the situation on their doorstep. Six young adults in old, baggy, fisher’s clothes convulsed in seeming seizures upon the cobblestones.

Not knowing what else to do, old Eman had them ported inside out of the rain and laid out on the attic floor. The seizures passed as mysteriously as the six had arrived, but the fit left them in a deep, almost comatose slumber. 

Eman sighed and let them sleep. At least here they couldn’t scare the patrons. Payment would just have to wait.


	2. Clean-up on Pier 19

Cane was the first to awaken, shortly followed by Argade and Ilesi. He checked the door. It was unlocked, so they couldn't possibly be back in Briarstone Asylum. He let out a shaky laugh of relief and returned to the others.

“Should we wake them?” asked Argade, tilting his head toward Bates, Mura, and Dal.

“Nah, they could probably use the extra hours,” said Cane.

“I wouldn't mind a few more myself,” said Ilesi. Her voice was so quiet no one could tell whether or not she'd meant it as a joke.

They headed downstairs to check out the full housing situation of this attic and found themselves in the Stain tavern. Eman the keeper was kindly enough though charged them for a full night's rest. Their money would last two more days at this rate.

Thankfully, there was a job listings notice at the tavern just as the ferry captain had suggested. Cane tapped a finger on the flyer with the highest reward. 

A personal boat had capsized just off of Pier 19. The job lister offered to pay for the retrieval of the various listed items now at the bottom of the pier before the tide washed them out to sea later today, hence the extravagant reward for such a simple task.

“If the three of us work together, we could totally fish up all these items and make bank,” said Cane.

“Even if we can't get them all, the pay for just the hope chest is still decent,” said Argade.

“Then we should go before someone else gets to the pier,” said Ilesi, pulling the entire flyer off the board to prevent further competition.

The three stepped out into a driving, morning rain. The wet barrage pounded against the decrepit dock’s boards like a score of out-of-sync drummers. Gentle waves lapped against the barnacle-studded posts that held up the sagging dock. The timbers creaked and bowed as they walked to the end of the pier.

Cane tore off his clothes and dumped them haphazardly on the timbers seeing as everything was soaked through anyway. He grabbed his nose and jumped off with a wild yelp.

Argade and Ilesi shared a shyer look.

“How about I go next and you can jump in after my head's down under?” offered Argade, flushing red.

“If you wouldn't mind,” said Ilesi, turning around to offer him some privacy of his own. She turned back only after she heard his tell-tale splash.

Soon all three were in the water, diving down to grab the hope chest and the assorted items of its interior, and then chucking said items back onto the pier.

“That's all of it,” said Cane, spitting a spout of water.

“Right, then let's let Ilesi go up first,” said Argade.

“Thanks,” said Ilesi.

It was painfully obvious to everyone that Argade blushed at her mere thanks. He hid his bright red face under the water. Cane bubbled out of sight after him.

Ilesi clambered from the edge of the pier onto the boards. In the lessened rain, she caught a creak from halfway up the dock.

There at the center of the pier, blocking all passage, was a gibbering mouther, a horrific, fleshy mass of eyes and mouths staring in all directions. Its countless maws opened and shut ceaselessly like the constant popping of toothed bubbles.

The sight of the eldritch abomination froze Ilesi in her tracks. Her body simply refused to move. She couldn’t even pry her eyes off the horror.

She watched, helpless, as a jet of black spittle spewed from the closest of the creature’s maws. The gluey strands splattered over her eyes, burning and blinding. Ilesi screamed and tore at the strands.

Her scream was audible even below the waves. Cane and Argade scrambled up and onto the dock. An even more horrifying sight met their eyes.

Ilesi, naked save for the burning blindfold of pitch, was inside the largest maw of the mouther. Sticky strands of its eyeballed, gibbering flesh wrapped around her, pinning her arms to the sides of her torso and lashing her legs together at the thighs. More eldritch flesh pistoned its hot, heavy girth into the full stretch of her mouth, throat, pussy, and anus.

Heavy, oozing strands splattered around Cane and Argade’s ankles from under the pier. Cane yelped and shook his leg with all his might. Argade crouched and clawed at the strands, which only caught more gibbering flesh on his hands and wrists.

Cane, kicking his leg, fell flat on his back as his abomination arced up from under the pier. Its entire oozing mass of eyeballed flesh land splat on top of him, pinning and gluing him to the creaky timbers. All but his nose was utterly enveloped in its hot, weighty muck.

Semisolid flesh gushed and pounded into his ears, mouth, and anus like the fluid jets of a cursed hot tub. But unlike water, the heavy muck with its balled eyes and popping maws filled every orifice it entered to the straining brim, crushing Cane’s shafts from the inside out. More muck coiled around his cock, wrapping tighter than any cunt or asshole with its sticky, heavy, fluid folds.

Cane shrieked, choking on the mouths and eyeballs roiling in his throat. Or moaned and choked, to be technical. Between the relentless pounding pressure tearing up the walls of his anus and the crushing, semi-solid squeeze around his cock, his every pain blurred on the edge of mind-blanking pleasure.

Then the gibbering mouther opened all its maws in a chorus of reedy wails. Its fleshy folds exploded into violent clenching and quivering. Acidic, digestive cum burst into Cane’s already-stuffed throat and anus, swelling his belly beneath the thick layer of living muck binding him to the dock boards.

Cane’s eyes rolled back into his skull as the gibbering mouther sucked him into its orgasm by his ravaged dick and anus. His hot seed blasted into one of its maws and one of its eyes, a drop of cum in an ocean of all-devouring orgasm.


	3. No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

Bates, Mura, and Dal awoke shortly after Cane, Argade, and Ilesi left for Pier 19. They tromped down the stairs, came to a similar understanding with the tavernkeep and searched the odd jobs board for the next most lucrative opportunity.

In a place called Iris Hill on the outskirts of the town, Countess Lowls requested aid in moving furniture to the attic and foodstuffs to her cellar. She was, apparently, an elderly woman who could no longer do such things herself but had plenty of money with which to pay others to do it.

“Still,” said Bates, “that’s an awful lot of money for such simple tasks.”

“That’s because Iris Hill is haunted,” Eman piped up from behind the bar where they wiped down dirtied dishware.

“You must be joking,” Mura giggled nervously in the near-hysterical hopes of a joke.

“None of us Thrushmoor-born would ever take a job at Iris Hill. We’ve grown up on the stories of people going missing there. Never someone we’ve known personally, but…”

“So it is a joke,” said Mura. “Ha. Ha-ha. Ha. Ha.”

“But this Countess has the kind of money to make someone disappear?” asked Dal.

“And the Count, when he was around. He’s, ah, also disappeared.”

“No wonder she wants the help--she’s probably lonely,” said Bates.

“And, and too proud to admit it,” nodded Mura.

Dal held their tongue. There was no question they were taking this job, but no need to caution each other about the dangers. 

The three finished their breakfast, left a message for the others with the tavernkeep, and set out for Iris Hill. Weeds had sprung up throughout the estate’s grounds, colonizing the place for themselves. Thick vines of ivy covered the walls with a verdant blanket. Crows stood sentry on the building’s eaves, calling out a squawk or so as they eyed the passing ex-patients. 

Bates knocked on the heavy, black front door. The knocking jarred it open. There on the floor were the foodstuff deliveries. Among other things. Nearly every surface of the estate was cluttered and dusty, resembling the abode of a hoarder rather than that of the county ruler/s. The furniture to be moved was at least shrouded in white dust covers.

“I’ll move the furniture,” said Bates, certain of his strength, “but I’ll need some help for balance.”

“I’ll stick with you, then,” said Mura. “If this is the foyer, I can’t bear to imagine the cellar.”

“I’ll take the food down,” said Dal, shaking their head. The attic couldn’t be much worse. They grabbed the first baskets in either hand and walked deeper into the house in search of kitchen/pantry/servant areas.

Bates and Mura took hold of the first covered piece, some kind of couch. With Bates providing the muscle and Mura keeping the whole lot of them from tipping over, they began the calf-burning climb to the attic.

It was easy to find with only one set of ascending stairs in the manor. The trapdoor opened with only a rusty squeak of protest. 

The large, open attic had a slanted ceiling, the highest beams in the middle to the lowest on the perimeter, where fibrous plants sprouted from clay pots. They were sickly, no doubt because they were barely illuminated by the dust-caked dormer windows. The air was thick with dust, mold, and decay.

Which mattered not to the elderly, white-haired woman standing at a window. Countess Lowls, they presumed, didn’t not turn at their entry. She muttered words just out of earshot and comprehension.

“Good morning, Countess,” said Bates. “We’re Bates and Mura, and our friend Dal’s downstairs. We’ve taken up your job listing.”

She continued to mutter, almost to chant.

Mura took her brother’s hand. “Let’s just go get the next piece.”

This place was giving her the creeps. More importantly, she could barely breathe in this hot, cramped, dirty space. She almost wished she could trade places with Dal.

The chanting stopped. Countess Lowls turned.

#*#*#*#*

Dal found the wine cellar from a trapdoor in the kitchen, as expected. The cool, damp stone chamber was a labyrinth of shelves, each riddled with glass and clay bottles, decanters, mugs, and crystal goblets. Where there weren’t shelves, there were kegs of alcohol the size of carriages.

Dal stopped and shook their head. From the looks of it, there wasn’t gonna be some reserved surface space for these baskets. They set the baskets on the floor and went back the way they came, guided by the thin shaft of light from the open door.

They tripped over something they hoped was not a rat wiggling around their feet. Dal landed on their hands and knees. They looked back, the thing tightening around their ankle.

The elder thing was six-feet tall, definitely not a rat. It had a star-shaped head and countless writhing tentacles arranged radially around its barrel-shaped body. The creature’s head was a starfish-shaped organ with eyes at the tips of the arms and stalked feeding tubes around its open maw.

Dal screamed. Every tentacle on its body surged forth and wrapped around Dal’s legs, waist, arms, and neck. Their scream choked off in its constricting grasp.

They were dragged, kicking their legs and clawing at the tentacles around their throat. Their feet were sucked first into the elder thing’s maw. The tight squeeze forced their legs together.

Inch by slimy inch, Dal’s constricted legs were sealed vacuum-tight into the elder thing’s devouring maw. With their hips went their hands, pinioned to their sides by its tentacles.

Dal choked and writhed--their torso and head alone, each banging fruitlessly against the stone floor. Their legs, hips, waist, and forearms were so tightly squeezed as to be completely immobile.

Sucked in to the chest, the breath was crushed from their constricted, burning lungs. Saliva splattered up from Dal’s last cough. Darkness swam at the corners of their eyes. The last thing they saw was the elder thing’s maw sealing around their face like a second skin heavy as brick.

#*#*#*#*

White, rubbery tentacles shot out from Countess Lowls’ pockmarked nightgown. They coiled around the shrieking siblings, hoisting them upside down in the air. The tentacles bound their arms to their sides but held their legs open and spread in their iron grip.

Countess Lowls let out a screeching, cawing cackle. The tentacles yanked Bates’ loose pants off his crotch and asscheeks. They flung Mura’s long skirt over her head, baring her legs.

“No, no, no, no, no!” Bates screamed as a rubbery, tapered head pitched through the clenched mouth of his anus.

Mura, too terrorized for speech, only screeched louder as a tapered head penetrated her own asshole. 

The tentacles wasted no time, thrusting and tearing through the brother and sister’s shafts with brutal heat. They were aided by tentacles slithering into the siblings’ protesting mouths. And one wrapping around Bates’ cock, rubbing and squeezing him into forced erection.

Countess Lowls’ hands danced like the conductor of an orchestra’s. At her direction, the choking, gagging siblings were smushed together, front to front. The tentacles slid Bates’ wrapped cock into his sister’s pussy like the locking of two gears.

Mura’s bound legs shuddered against his, the crushing press of her slender chest hot through the thin barrier of her skirt. A sound escaped her stuff throat at the weighted stretch of her brother’s wrapped cock ripping through her strained walls. A helpless moan.

Every forced shove into his sister’s cunt pounded another muffled moan from behind the fabric curtain. Bates sobbed just as helplessly, his feral-minded dick swelling harder, hotter at the rough rub of the coils and the wet squeeze of his sister’s shaft. She was tighter with each raping penetration, sucking him harder, deeper.

A moan escaped from Bates’ own throat, his control shattered. Burning seed burst from the tiny hole at the head of his cock and gushed into his sister’s womb. Her walls clenched and spasmed, milking him greedily for every last drop.

The countess laughed in her cawing cackle. She wasn’t nearly done with them yet. Her conducting hands directed her tentacles to surge en masse into the siblings’ rawed anuses.

They screamed and gagged around their throat tentacles. The countess’ pumping mass was going to split them apart ass-first.


	4. Run, Kiddies, Run

They were dying--Cane, Argade, and Ilesi on Pier 19; Bates and Mura in the attic of Iris Hill; and Dal in the basement. They were dying, but they didn’t have to. They simply had to accept the debt of Hastur into their hearts, an IOU penned in binding yellow.

None of them wanted to die. Hastur’s eldritch yellow filled their souls and glowed from their eyes.

Yellow light pierced through the gaping maws of the gibbering mouthers. Its piercing lances outshone the Thrushmoor lighthouse. The gibbering mouthers exploded into thick, steaming piles of fleshy ooze.

Yellow light pierced through the withered skin and white tentacles of Countess Lowls. It lanced through the attic windows, blazing from the house on Iris Hill. The countess exploded, Bates and Mura dropping to the floor. They landed lightly on their feet.

Yellow light pierced through the barrel-shaped body of the elder thing. Its piercing rays twisted and danced through every bottle and glass decanter of the cellar. The elder thing exploded, its flying gristle sending bottles shattering to the floor. Dal flung its slime from their body and floated up the stairs.

By the time the six reunited at the Stain, the light of Hastur had left their eyes. They squeezed together at a single booth to take stock of...things.

Only Cane, Argade, and Ilesi received any pay. Bates, Mura, and Dal hadn’t been in the state of mind to steal compensate themselves on behalf of their murderous employer, rendering them posthumously stiffed. All six, however, agreed that they couldn’t stay in Thrushmoor.

“There’s just something not right about this place, attracting all these eldritch beings,” said Cane.

“Maybe it’s cursed,” said Argade quietly.

“Cursed or just some nexus of evil or something,” said Ilesi, “we have to get out of here as soon as possible.”

“We have enough for passage on a ship,” said Bates.

“But where do we go?” asked Mura.

“My family emigrated from Qadira,” said Dal.

Cane nodded. “Mine came from Taldor. There’s a boat to Cassomir. Argade, you want to come with me?”

“I, sure.” His eyes flicked toward Ilesi. Then stayed there. “How does Taldor sound?”

“I’ve never been...so I’d like to see for myself,” said Ilesi with the slightest smile.

“We can’t let Dal go to Qadira alone,” said Bates to his sister.

Mura chewed her lip. Qadira was desert country. The sun would be killer on her and Bates’ pale skin. That wasn’t even counting the skin-and-hair-drying air. The foreign food. The...Bates was still looking at her for an answer to his unspoken question.

“No,” she said slowly, “we can’t. Dal?”

“It’ll be good to have the company. Thank you,” said Dal.

Tavernkeep Eman kept the drink coming.


End file.
